The title of this post sounds like it would be a great Country and Western song. Makes me wish I was a song writer, it would be a hit. I am not referring to myself in this blog post. I don't drink whiskey for fear of hair growing either on my tongue or on my chest. I have no desire for hair to grow in either place.
The song title and post refer to a woman I know, one of my neighbors, Patti. In the summertime Patti goes around with a flask sized bottle of "rot gut" whiskey in her back pocket. In her car, she has an open fifth of the same stuff. I don't know if she uses it as a refill for the smaller bottle or not. I shrug, because I'm sure I don't want to know.
Patti is less than four months older than I am. Her penchant for whiskey and pain pills makes her look 20 years older. Patti's penchant has not been kind to Patti's family. Patti has two sons. I can't think of a time I have ever seen her oldest son, now in his mid-twenties, when he wasn't high. Patti's youngest son, just turned 13. Recently he had been kicked out of school for bringing cigarettes on campus. At 12, he became sexually active. He also smokes pot and drinks. Is it genetic? Is it because it is the only thing these boys have seen? I shrug. I'm sure there have been scientific studies done on generations of abuse. Generations of living in a whiskey fog.
Don't get me wrong, Patti has been said to have a heart of gold. Would give you the shirt off her back. I'm thinking Patti's little girl dreams never came true. What little girl would dream of having the rough life I have been told Patti has had. Incidents of sexual molestation and abuse. Living in abusive, domestic relationships. The father of her youngest son wanted a baby, Patti did not. She thought she was too old, already in her 40s. She said he pulled her down some stairs by the hair, with a gun in his hand. A good thing is she is out of that relationship, a bad that she has to see him daily, through her whiskey fog.